


Getting away with murder

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No way!” Brad says as he sets the table. “All the best killers remove the skin from their victims.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting away with murder

“No way!” Brad says as he sets the table. “All the best killers remove the skin from their victims.”

Chester snorts, bringing the plates through from the kitchen and setting them down opposite each other. “It just sounds like way too much hard work for me.” He disappears back into the kitchen, returning with two glasses and a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.

Brad grabs a glass from him, uncorks the wine, “Ever tried bare handed strangulation? Lemme tell you a little something about hard work…” He fills his glass then reaches over to fill Chester’s with a smile.

“I don’t know. What’s wrong with a good old wrist slitting? Or throat, even. It’s satisfying and it’s easy enough to clean up. Could you pass the salt?”

“You cover every meal in salt. Why do I even bother cooking for you when you turn it all into a heart attack?”

“Chicken needs salt, Brad. I dunno how many times I have to say it,” Chester rolls his eyes, puts down the salt shaker and sips his wine. “What would you do with the skin, anyway?”

Brad shrugs, mumbles around a mouthful of food, “I dunno. Keep it as a trophy I guess. You can get that shit preserved if you go to the right person.”

“I do not want human skin lying around the house, Brad.”

Brad doesn’t press the subject further, just eats his meal in silence, glancing up every now and then to watch Chester. He empties his glass of wine and sits back with a content sigh, pushing away his empty plate. Instinctively he goes to unbuckle his belt but his hands are met with nothing at his waist.

“It’s around his wrists.” Chester says with a smirk. “You always do that.” He puts down his knife and fork either side of his not-quite-empty plate and gets to his feet.

“Where you going?”

“I’m full,” he says, “and there’s no point in wasting it.”

The basement door is guarded with a padlock the size of Chester’s fist. He balances his plate awkwardly on one hand, pushing the key into the lock with the other. He kicks open the door lightly with his foot, squinting as he steps into the darkness.

The light is a string which hangs in the corner of the room. Chester tugs it, closing his eyes as the strip light chases away the darkness. Opens them, eventually, still squinting. The figure in the corner looks up dazedly. A couple of days ago he’d have cowered, begged for help. But now he doesn’t bother.

“Brad is a brilliant cook. I thought I’d share.”

He steps closer, putting the plate down in front of the man who has looked away now. The belt around his wrists is biting into his skin and he winces when Chester loosens it carefully, pulling it away and pushing the plate closer.

“Dig in.” He says.

His name is Mike. He’s probably nearly thirty if he isn’t already. Not the kind of guy they usually go for. Brad spotted him in the club and took a shine for him almost instantly. He was pretty far gone. Mike, that is, although Brad had had one two many as well. He looked lost, all the time glancing around as if he had been separated from his friends.

Chester went up first, tested the water. The usual, you-come-here-often spiel. Sometimes he just gets laughed at but Mike, Mike was lonely. A step too close to desperate, and he lapped it right up.

Brad made his move next. Acted as if he’d never met Chester, said that it was strange to see two handsome young men in a place like this, asked if they’d like to go somewhere else. Somewhere more fun.

Then…Rohypnol. The pair of them bundling Mike’s limp body into the back of the car.

And now.

Mike eats slowly. His jaw probably still aches from when Brad punched him. Too hard, really. But it’s not like he’d have listened if Chester had told him to stop.

The stairs creek and when Chester glances over his should Brad is standing there.

“I made that chicken for you.” He says, sounding a little annoyed.

“Yeah,” Chester says with a small smile, “I know.”

Brad moves to stand beside Chester, the pair of them staring down at Mike as he eats what is left on the plate.

“Have you given skinning any more thought?” Brad asks, laughing when Mike’s eyes widen in fear, horror.

“No. We’re not skinning him.”

Brad sighs but thinks it’s fair enough. Chester didn’t have any say in their last victim’s death so it’s his turn now. “Still wanna bleed him, then?”

Chester nods bending down to pick up the clean plate. Mike shivers slightly, moving further into the corner. Setting the plate down on the stairs Chester says, “Yeah. I think that’d be the best way.”

“Alright.”

Brad pulls out a kitchen knife from his pocket. He crouches down beside Mike and whispers in his ear, “Hold out your arms.”

Of course Mike doesn’t do as he is told. Brad jabs the knife into his side. The man howls in pain and breathes heavily as Brad pulls out the blade. It looks horrible, but Chester knows it’s only a shallow wound and has missed any organs. They’re good at aiming, nowadays.

“Hold out your arms, fucker.”

This time Mike doesn’t hesitate. He holds out his shaking arms, palms down.

Chester glares at Brad as he raises the knife again, threateningly. He steps forward and kneels in front of Mike, stroking his face soothingly. “Other way round, baby,” he murmurs.

Mike trembles, turns his arms over to reveal the spider web map of veins just beneath his skin.

Chester takes his hands as Brad takes the knife, slashing a straight line from the heel of Mike’s left hand to the middle of his forearm. He slashes the right, too, watching in fascination as the blood pumps steadily from the wounds.

They sit and watch as Mike dies, slowly. It’s not as fun as Chester had first anticipated. Most people, they cry, sob, try to stop the bleeding. But Mike just sits there and watches them watch him until his eyelids droop, until there’s no blood left in his head and everything goes dark and all he can hear is static.

“Meh.” Brad says.

Chester sighs, nods in agreement. “Yeah. You can skin him now, if you want. That was all pretty boring.”

Brad beams and leans in for a kiss, “Thank you!” He says.

“I have one request, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow, maybe we could try, you know. Maybe not chicken tomorrow. Maybe you could cook me something a little different.” Chester says, nodding at Mike’s body suggestively.

“Anything for you, baby,” Brad smiles. “Let me get my carving knife.” He says, getting to his feet and heading back upstairs.


End file.
